– To go back and time, and have the coffeepot in the coffee maker when I switched it on, so that it will not back up and overflow sludge all over my “office”
– A daily planner
– 24 more hours in the day
– Some Xanax
– Extra arms
– The end of patriarchy
– Some Prozac
– The end of western civilization
– A place to live, with kitchen, bathroom, and bed
– Steel teeth
– Free lifetime supply of pickles
– To relax
– An eye for an eye
– A tooth for a tooth
– Cigarettes that cure cancer
– New work clothes

I don’t remember a specific moment that I decided to take up the anti-porn yoke, and I’ve never looked back. But there are so many memories that demand I confront them for the first time. I don’t think I ever really “believed in” repressed memories. Maybe in theory, maybe for other people, but not me. I’ve known a lot of things about myself: I was raped, I was in porn, these are trivia, plain facts. I remember these facts.

But you know how it goes, I think. All the visceral memories. The smells. I just figured out that the memories I thought I had — an out of body experience, looking down on my body down there on the bed, ants, the window seat — are really just memories of porn. I don’t really remember! A composite sketch. Strangely familiar. Some low-budget scenes. A catchy jingle. A song stuck in your head because it was whispering at the drug store this morning.

Touch that dial.

I don’t remember the past ten years.

Then come the compulsions to fill the sill with all your trinkets of memories. A milky-eyed shard of green glass. A rusty bottle cap. A twisted stick. Mica. Detritus. Make it flash before you.

Lately, I can’t sleep for thirty hours. No, I mean, I can stay asleep forty hours, or four. But I can’t get to sleep for forty hours. Sometimes the montage won’t stop, face blurred but grimacing, grotesque. My eyes too large like flies’. One weapon is to masturbate.